


Philos

by Crollalanza



Series: Iwaoi - Philos Series [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2262975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never went in for heart-to-hearts. It was more a heart-to-ear, as Oikawa would talk, Hajime would listen and then comfort or confront.  It was a pattern, their way, and although Hajime knew how one-sided it was, that Oikawa was in every way selfish, it was still their way, and their pattern.</p><p>A pattern that had now been snipped to bits and scattered in the air.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Éros

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been written for Iwaoi week on tumblr. I've combined two prompts hurt/comfort and reincarnation.  
> Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Thank you people on tumblr and twitter who've put up with me ranting as this went out of control.

In the immediate aftermath.

When there was nothing to feel.

Before the numbness of disbelief faded and the pain truly ripped into him.

Tooru laughed.

It was the silence, he thought, when he looked back. The stunned silence from his teammates, the horror on every face, the fear emanating from every pore, as they looked his way.

Because none of them knew quite what he’d do.

This wasn’t a loss to Shiratorizawa where his rage would have to be contained until a suitable outlet could be found. They understood that anger. All of Seijou knew of his grudge, his aim, and the one great prize to beat that team, that ace, that _fucking_ Ushijima, who had overshadowed Tooru for all his volleyball life.

This was different. Something rawer. Something new because...

“Get up.”

“Fu fu, Iwa-chan, what are you doing up there?”

“Oikawa... we need to say thank you.” _His_ voice was bitter, strained, broken. “You’re the captain. Move.”

“Mmm, of course.” But he didn’t move.

“Come on, get to your feet.”

“Are we still on the court?”

“We need to go. Bow. Walk out. Leave.”

He stretched out his hand. Tooru stared at it, his mouth open. “We didn’t win.”

“We lost.”

“To _him_?”

Iwaizumi crouched down and placed his hand on Tooru’s shoulder. His strong fingers gripped but Tooru didn’t flinch. “It’s not _him_ anymore, Oikawa-chan. It’s Karasuno.”

(They weren’t supposed to lose to Karasuno. That had never been in the plan because no team could improve that fast, and certainly no team could improve that much to take on the might of Oikawa Tooru and Aobajousai. But Karasuno had. Tobio-chan, his underclassman, his adorably useless kouhai, that _fucking_ genius had won with a crazy oddball strike, a jump serve and finally a spike from their ace. And all he could do was laugh at the absurdity of it all, before praying this was merely a dream.)

 

He couldn’t rage. He couldn’t cry. He was dead inside. An open-mouthed hollow mask. Brittle boned. If he spoke, he’d crack. Because this should not have happened. This was a different world, a world where things were unfair, and he didn’t get his chance, where he was the villain and ...

“Where are we?” he whispered.

“On the coach,” Iwaizumi muttered. “We’ll be back soon.”

“Good.” He closed his eyes, hoping he could drift back to sleep and the nightmare would go. But all he could see was Tobio’s face. Tobio-chan looking ‘happy’. Not just triumphant, or cocky, or exhilarated, but happy because he’d played so very well.

“Iwa-chan?”

“Mmm.”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“Uh ... Yeah, sure. I’ll swing by mine first and we can go back to yours.”

He shook his head. His room was full of plans. Strategies to beat other teams. DVDs of every match.  “Can I stay at yours tonight?”

“’Course,” Iwaizumi replied, adding as if by rote, “We could go out if you want. Movie to take our minds -“ A deep sigh. “We should go home and crash.”

Tooru looked his way. “We already have, Iwa-chan,” he murmured, but Iwaizumi was staring out of the coach window, his face expressionless.

 

 

It was odd, Hajime thought looking back, how neither of them spoke about the match. They didn’t talk about anything much that night. He heated up a noodle dish his mum had left out for them. He fetched coke from the fridge, and he handed Oikawa the remote control, telling him to pick what he wanted to watch. Normal things. The sort of things friends did.

But that was all.

 

It was in the night when Oikawa began to cry.

Hajime heard the first sniffle at two seventeen. He knew that was the time because he’d been staring at the clock, dry eyed and far too scared to sleep. Because sleep would mean he’d dream.

Hajime dreamt in monochrome, not colour as normal people did. His dreams took on the hue of an old-fashioned movie. The ones where the hero and heroine smoked a lot, and snapped out lines to each other. The movies where it would end with him kissing her, bending her backwards, but not so it looked awkward. Movies where the good guys always won.

 _Weren’t we the good guys?_   he wondered. _Wasn’t it finally our time?_

No, he hadn’t closed his eyes because every time he did, all he could see was Kageyama’s face, and then that kid, that short arse, Hinata, screeching when their Ace ploughed them down. If he closed his eyes, he’d see that scene over. It really was like an old black and white movie, where the projector had broken down, a frozen frame delineating every last play.

“Why?” Oikawa said.

 _They were better_ – that was the simple answer. But it wasn’t the entire truth. And he couldn’t face an in depth discussion now. Oikawa needed to talk. Finally, eight hours after the match had ended, he obviously wanted to discuss the match, to analyse, or rage or, do whatever the fuck he ever did after a loss (but they never had that many. It was Shiratorizawa.  Always it had been Shiratorizawa. And Ushijima. Hajime could deal with that, for those losses were familiar. But this. This was something else. And ... Hajime did- not- want- to- talk.)

“Because life fucking sucks,” he replied. “Now go to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep.”

‘Then put a movie on. Or read a book. Or do whatever normal people do when they can’t sleep, Ass-kawa,’ he wanted to snarl.  But he didn’t. Instead, Hajime turned away from the clock and faced Oikawa.

“If that last serve-“ Oikawa muttered.

“If that last block-“ countered Hajime.

“If _he_ had only-“

“But he didn’t.” Hajime murmured. “And you didn’t fuck up either. None of us did. They were just bet-“

“Don’t say that!”

“Karasuno. Were. Better.” The words fell like stones in a pond, the effect rippling outwards.

Hajime waited for the rage, waited for the fists that would pound pillows or walls, or fingers that would pull out hair. He waited for Oikawa to shout, to scream to yell his fury and anger and bitterness to the world. The way he always did in private when they’d lost in the past.

Instead, in one fluid movement, he touched Iwaizumi’s face with his hand, ran soft fingers across his cheek, to drift to his neck.  And before Hajime had a chance to protest or pull away (would he have pulled away?)  Oikawa pressed his mouth on his, and began to kiss him.

Hajime had kissed before. Girls, whatever Oikawa said, were attracted to him, and he had a good success rate, but nothing serious. He’d never put himself out for them, always giving the excuse that volleyball took up his spare time, and it wouldn’t be fair to ask a girl to hang around waiting for him to finish practise.

The truth was, after a few kisses, he realised he never wanted it to go further.

The truth was, now Oikawa was kissing him, he realised he wanted so much more.

His lips parted, his hands moved to Oikawa’s hips, their eyes stayed open, as he waited for Oikawa to stop what he was doing. To hit him, or roll away, to tell him in a mocking voice, ‘I always knew, Iwa-chan’.

But this was Oikawa forcing the pace, teeth biting Hajime’s lower lip, fingers forcing themselves in the mat of his hair, to press him back onto the pillow as he levered himself half on top.

Aware he was already hard, his cock firm, erect underneath his shorts, Hajime tried to squirm away. A kiss ... they could forget that ... but if Oikawa knew. If he even thought, then ...

“Oh, fuck!”

Oikawa was moving against him, but the embarrassment he knew he should be feeling, dissolved when he felt a cock as hard as his own rubbing on his groin.

There was no finesse, no swirling kisses, or tender caresses, but hard mouths on mouths, biting at lobes, cheeks, necks. Stubble blasted chins scoured chests, fingers digging in as they fought each other and themselves to not feel.

“What are we doing?” Hajime gasped, as Oikawa’s hand ripped down his shorts and gripped him hard.

“Forgetting,” Oikawa replied, and for the first time since the match, he sounded angry.

 

After, it should have been awkward. Hell, they’d never so much as kissed (although Hajime had wondered – no he’d done more than wonder for the thought of Oikawa’s lips on his had obsessed him at one time, before he channelled his energy in other directions) and now they’d ... what was the word for they’d done – jerked each other off, he supposed. Maybe that was something close friends did, Hajime didn’t know. Oikawa was his only close friend and they’d never ...

So, yeah, it should have been awkward but when Oikawa curled up into a ball, with Hajime draped around him, both of them finally cried.

 

 

It was on Tuesday when Coach Irihata summoned him to practise. Tooru walked leadenly to the gymnasium. He’d not seen the team since the loss. He’d not seen Iwaizumi since Sunday morning. That in itself wasn’t unusual. Mondays were his day away from training. His day off, if you liked, and as Iwaizumi was in class five and he class four, then they often didn’t see each other on Monday. Unless something important had happened. Unless Tooru needed something.

It hadn’t and he didn’t.

There was nothing left for him now at High School. No more matches for third years. The only useful thing was to concentrate on improving, on keeping up his fitness, because college called, and he’d make their team, of that there was no doubt. He had his pick because, whatever match scores said, he was the best Setter in the prefecture. He smiled a little to himself.  For all he knew, he was the best in Japan. (He winced and shooed away the thought that if they’d won, then he could have proved this at Nationals.)  College, with a better team, would allow that to be recognised.

His phone vibrated. He flicked it open. Iwa-chan ... _again_.

‘I’m at the gym. Where are you?’

‘Right outside.’ He tapped back, and hit send just as he walked through the door.

“You panic too much, Iwa-chan?” he drawled, and smiled at the team. “Coach, you wanted me for something?”

“Sit down!” Irihata snapped. “You’re late as it is.”

Still with the smile firmly attached to his face, Tooru sank gracefully to the floor at the back. Iwaizumi shuffled sideways and glared at him. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“College application forms,” Tooru lied.

“For two days! I’ve been calling you. And texting.”

Deliberately shrugging, Tooru stretched out his left leg and bent down into it. He might as well begin his stretches early.

“Oikawa. Iwaizumi. Concentrate!” the coach shouted. He shot a look across at them both, a look speaking of exasperation but also a faint glimmer of pity. Tooru frowned back at him.

“As I was saying before Oikawa deigned to turn up,” Coach Irihata continued. “This has been a shock. None of us expected-”

 _Blah blah blah_ , thought Tooru, his thoughts drifting away to somewhere outside the gymnasium. Open fields, or mountains, running, a small room and -

“So as this match is already lined up, and it will be of no benefit to cancel, I have agreed we will still play.”

Tooru snapped his focus back to the room. “A match?”

“Yes, Oikawa, a match. I was intending this to be a more intense practise for Nationals. As you pointed out, we needed better opposition. And it’s true we became stale because-”

“Which team?” Iwaizumi jumped in.

Tooru unclenched his fist, vaguely surprised that Iwaizumi had interrupted.

“They’re from Tokyo. They’ve qualified for Nationals, and are looking for teams outside their prefecture to practise with.”

“Which team?” Tooru demanded. “Have we heard of them?”

Coach Irihata looked grim. “Nekoma High. They beat Fukurodani in their prefecture final.”

“I’ve heard of Fukurodani,” Matsukawa put in.

“They have a top five ace,” Iwaizumi replied.

“What would you know about top five, Iwa-chan?” Tooru said, laughing, and ducked to avoid the blow he was sure was coming his way.

Except Iwaizumi didn’t lash out. He didn’t even scowl, but kept his face firmly forwards, intent on the coach. Tooru watched as he took a deep breath.

“D-do you want us to play?” he asked.

“Idiot, of cour-” Tooru started to chide, but his words were cut short when Matsukawa spoke up.

“Us third years, Coach, if you want us to step down now, then ...”

 _Him too_. “Hold on, I haven’t agreed to this!” Tooru protested and then laughed. “Not scared, are you?”

Still Iwaizumi didn’t react.

The coach raised his hands as if to ward off a potential argument, even if none were forthcoming.

“Nekoma have agreed to this match because they wish to be stretched. They want to play a full-strength side.” He pointed at them. “You three are in the starting line up. It would not be honourable to put out a sub-strength side.”

 

It was obvious from the silence – the absence of Oikawa – that he regretted what had happened. Waiting for replies through Sunday, waiting for any sign that Oikawa was even thinking about him through Monday and the best part of Tuesday had left Hajime taut, strung out and more alone than he’d ever been. In the past, he’d always had Oikawa. It was true he couldn’t exactly talk to him. They never went in for heart-to-hearts. It was more a heart-to-ear, as Oikawa would talk, Hajime would listen and then comfort or confront.  It was a pattern, their way, and although Hajime knew how one-sided it was, that Oikawa was in every way selfish, it was still _their_ way, and _their_ pattern.

A pattern that had now been snipped to bits and scattered in the air.

 _Fuck we shouldn’t have-._  
But he started it.  
I should have pushed him away.  
But he wanted it.

“Nekoma, eh?” Oikawa murmured.

It was only then that Hajime realised how close he was, and that they were alone in the changing room.

“What’s got you so frightened, Iwa-chan?” he said as he smoothed on clean socks.

“I’m not.” His heart was thudding, his face reddening.

“They’re just another team. Why wouldn’t you want to play?”

 _Oh, he meant playing._ Hajime conjured a shrug and a pissed off expression. “We’re third years. The coach needs to look to the future.”

“Valuable third years. He can’t attract a team outside the prefecture without us.” He started to whistle, tying his laces with such precision so each loop was the same size.  It was a ritual Hajime had seen many times before a match, the slender fingers furling and unfurling the laces, tweaking the bow until each tie was of even length.

But he’d never seen Oikawa do this after practise. He stood up and brushed a speck of dirt off his jeans. “Unless you plan on staying here for the night, we should leave, Iwa-chan.”

“Oikawa...” Hajime rasped. He tried to swallow, but there was something stuck in his throat, like a stone, or a smooth glass marble, stopping the words from coming out.

“Mmm?”  He didn’t look his way. Hajime was grateful because if he’d looked into his large brown, fawn-like eyes, he didn’t think he could have spoken at all.

“About Saturday.”

“We lost.”

“No, I mean. Yeah, we lost, but I mean... um .. the-” Fuck, why was this so difficult? He’d known him for over ten years. “The night. What happened on Saturday night. What are we ... um ... doing about that?”

“Saturday night?” Finally, Oikawa turned his head. He was smiling faintly, his eyes huge. “Nothing happened on Saturday night, Iwa-chan.”

Okay, so that’s how they were playing it. Torn between relief, fury and regret, Hajime nodded as he shoved his shirt in his kit bag. “Good.”

But then Oikawa stepped closer. “It was Sunday morning, wasn’t it?”His smile broadened becoming cat-like. “I must say, for someone with so little experience, and barely any finesse, you’re really quite good when you’re ... uh ... aroused.” He laughed. “Good technique, Iwa-chan, you must practise a lot.”

Instinctively his hand formed a fist. “You fucking arsehole. You fucking piece of fucking –”

Oikawa had usually ducked by this time, and Hajime couldn’t understand for the life of him why he was still standing, why Oikawa hadn’t fled, and why Hajime let him stand stock still with that fucking smirk on his face, and not spiked him to the floor.

Then Oikawa tilted his face downwards and planted a kiss on Hajime’s cheek. “Come on, we need more practise.”

“Uh... what?” Hajime blinked. “You mean for the match. Against Nekoma.”

“That too.”

 


	2. Storgē

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Storgē - is an Ancient Greek word for love. Amongst the definitions on Wikepedia I found this:  
> 'It is also known to express mere acceptance or putting up with situations, as in "loving" the tyrant.'

The match was set for three weeks time. During that time, the team practised. They practised intensely every day, during lunchtimes, and weekends. Hajime’s motivation came from the fact that this could be his last chance to play against a top-quality side. He wanted to see if his spikes could get through (their coach told them Nekoma had an incredible Middle Blocker) and if their plays - as a whole - could succeed against a team already heading for Nationals.

If they could win, then people might rethink the match against Karasuno and realise some things are not inevitable. They would remember, instead, that Aobajousai were still a strong team, but sometimes it took more than strength, and one team might be able to ride their luck better than another.

Most of all, Hajime was relieved that Oikawa was also training hard. “Have to keep fit,” he said casually, when Matsukawa asked why he was staying behind after practise. But Hajime knew, from the light in Oikawa’s eyes, that this match mattered.

They’d hooked twice more since that first time. Far more measured times, with no anger and kisses from soft lips and the chance to explore. Hajime’s face would flare in embarrassment when Oikawa’s fingertips would trace paths over his skin, arcing downwards, and all the while, he would talk to him in teasing tones.

_“You really do have a wonderful body, Iwa-chan.”_

_“Well-muscled abs.”  His mouth pouted into Hajime’s stomach. “And ... oh ... what have we here?” He started to lick along the waistband of Hajime’s boxers. He probably said more, Hajime was aware that some words were being said, but by then, all comprehensive thought had been totally overridden by the sensations pulsing through his body._

“You haven’t said whether you got in, Iwa-chan.” It was the Tuesday before the match, and Tooru was strolling out of the gym with Iwaizumi.

“What?”

Tooru stared at him. “College letters. I got mine this morning.”

“Fuck!  I left before the post arrived.” Iwaizumi sped forwards, then stopped abruptly. “What ... I ... don’t want to know. You ... you got in.”

It was a statement not a question, Tooru did him the courtesy of smiling with genuine pleasure. “Yes, and I got a scholarship, so I’m okay.” He’d reached Iwaizumi by now, and brushed against him. “We just need to see about you now, Iwa-chan.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s ... Hell, I don’t think I can face this.”

“Want me to come along?” 

Iwaizumi nodded, looking quite surprised at the offer, Tooru thought.  With his hand, he pulled a leaf from Iwaizumi’s hair, then ran his thumb down his cheek, noting the blush that appeared.

“You’ll get in,” he assured him. “On grades alone, you should.”

“But it’s the sports place I need. You know that. My parents busted a gut to send me to Aobajousai, and having to pay full tuition at _that_ college is ... I think it’s beyond them.”

“Won’t your grades make you eligible for a bursary?”

“Uh... maybe. But ... well, recently they’ve –”He took a breath, then another, and squared his shoulders. “Come on, I need to get home.”

 

 

“Told you,” Tooru said later. They were in Iwaizumi’s kitchen, sipping coffee and munching on biscuits his mum had made especially. “You and me, Iwa-chan, we’ll make it on the college team, and, maybe ...” He broke off a piece of biscuit, waving it in the air. “Maybe that’s where we’ll get our revenge.”

“Yeah...” Iwaizumi laughed. “I can’t believe it. This is unreal, and I know ... I know I’m not likely to make the starting line up, at least not straight away, not like you. But this ...”

 He choked on the coffee he’d started to gulp. Tooru leant over and slapped him on the back. “Hey, you have me. And we have perfect trust. We’ll _both_ make the starting line up.”

 

 

“Is that _them?”_ Oikawa looked incredulous, as they watched nine red track-suited players walk through the Seijou school gates. “That’s really the team who reached Nationals.”

“Mmm, looks like it.” Hajime’s attention was caught by one player towering over those at the back. “Whoa, he’s tall.” He watched as Oikawa’s eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking?”

“They don’t defer to him at all,” Oikawa said slowly. “A first year. That guy there-” He pointed to another figure, also tall, but with black mussed up hair. “They do defer to him. He has a lot of charisma. I bet he’s their Captain.”

“Any idea which one’s their Setter?”

Oikawa shook his head. “I didn’t try to find out. I wanted to go into this blind.”

“No research?  You mean none at all?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. Sometimes I like to play purely for fun,” Oikawa replied softly. “Hey, check out that little guy with the badly dyed hair.”

“What about him?”

“He’s spotted us but is hiding under his fringe.”

“Probably intimidated. He looks like a first year.”

“No ... he’s observing us.” Oikawa smiled a little. “This game looks as if it’s going to be ...” He licked his lips and Hajime saw a flare of excitement in his eyes. “ _Interesting._ ”

 

The school had given Nekoma the use of the gymnasium for practise on Friday afternoon. With study periods scheduled, Hajime and Oikawa skipped their library time and headed down to watch the opposition practise. Although they didn’t have permission to be in the gym, they didn’t, as Oikawa said, ‘not’ have permission. They hadn’t been told they had to stay away, so ...

“It would be rude not to introduce ourselves properly,” Oikawa murmured.

“I thought you didn’t want to do any research,” Hajime mocked. “Didn’t you want to go into this blind?”

“Nothing wrong with a bit of friendly banter,” Oikawa said.

“You mean intimidation.”

“Iwa-chan, would I?”

“Yeah.” Hajime grinned.

Nekoma were practising receives when they entered. Their coach, an old man, was sitting on the sides whilst his assistant threw the balls. Hajime watched, amused when the tall boy he’d thought was a third year, fell to the ground complaining it was too hard.

“GET UP!” yelled, not the coach, but the dark haired guy, who obviously was the Captain.

“Yaku-san, it hurts,” wailed the player, turning his face towards a shorter player, who was readying himself for the next ball.

“You need to hold your arms properly, Lev. I’ve told you that a hundred times.”

“Yaku, get ready!” shouted the assistant coach and powered the ball towards him.  Except the ball swerved to his side, a near impossible ball.

“Libero,” Hajime and Oikawa said at the same time, watching as the player not only expertly received the ball, but powered it back to the coach.

“He’s good,” Oikawa said. “Blondie’s their weakness. Wonder where bad dye job’s got to.”

“He’s at the back, sitting on the bench.” Hajime shrugged. “Maybe he’s their manager or something. He doesn’t look exactly athletic, does he?”

“Possibly.”  Lost in thought, Oikawa chewed his lip, then seemed to shake himself. “I think we’ve been spotted. So, let’s say hello, shall we?”

“Who? What?”

“Captain Charisma. Look, he’s walking over.”

“He’s tall, too.”

“Mmm, but somehow I can’t see him tripping over his legs,” Oikawa murmured.

And then he switched his face from intense and thoughtful, to beaming megawatt smile, striding forwards, hand outstretched, words of welcome ready to trip from his lips.  Hajime knew his place. It was by his Captain’s side, glaring his threats to underpin Oikawa’s veiled intimidation. Although somehow he didn’t think the Nekoma captain would be at all intimidated, certainly the smile playing on his lips hadn’t widened in response to Oikawa’s.

“Tetsurou Kuroo,” he said, proffering his hand. “Captain of Nekoma High. This is my team.”

“Oik-”

“Oikawa Tooru,” Kuroo interrupted. He gave a lazy smile. “We’ve heard of you.” His eyes flickered to Hajime. “Well, you ain’t the scallion head -”

“Scallion head?”

“Huh?”

“Guys,” Kuroo called, after a nod from his coach. “Come and meet the Aobajousai Captain, and ... uh ...”

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” Hajime replied. “Vice Captain.”

“Ah, cool.” Kuroo made rapid introductions, names that Hajime barely remembered as his eyes flicked round them all. They were eyeing them both with interest, not entirely friendly. Hajime stiffened his shoulders, ready to snarl as a bruiser with a mohican lurched towards them.

“Yamamoto, calm down,” ordered the Libero. He rolled his eyes. “There’s always one who can’t quite behave, don’t you find?” he said, directing his remarks to Hajime.

“Mmm, I think you’ll find that’s my Vice Captain,” Oikawa trilled. “He’s always ready to throw the first punch. Frustrated, you see, because he never gets the girls.”

 _Git._ Hajime scowled, now far more riled by Oikawa than Mohican-kun. “I will fucking punch _you_ ,” he muttered in undertone.

“Not in front of our guests, Iwa-chan.” He turned back to Kuroo, practically preening, giving the appearance that he was flattered by their recognition – which Hajime knew he was - but it was also a desire for information.  “You knew who I was? So you’ve been researching us, have you?”

Kuroo shrugged.  “We have a mutual ... uh ... _acquaintance_. At least our Setter does.” He flung his hand back, gesturing, to Hajime’s surprise, to the kid with the badly dyed hair.

Oikawa laughed. Hajime knew he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t his usual mockery, but genuine astonishment that the lethargic kid seeing the world from beneath his fringe, was the conductor of the team.

“You beat Fukurodani,” Oikawa said, smothering the disbelief out of his voice.

“Yeah, _their_ Captain couldn’t believe it either,” Kuroo replied. His tone was light, but there was a steely edge to it, and a look in his eyes that said, ‘Don’t fuck with us, pretty-boy.’ Then one corner of his mouth tilted upwards and he stepped closer to Oikawa. “You _lost_ to ... uh ... who was it?”

“Karasuno,” Hajime replied, expressionless.

“Never heard of ‘em,” Kuroo said. “ _Semi_ -finals, wasn’t it?

Oikawa scowled, and for a moment, Hajime thought he was going to lose it. But he wasn’t fourteen anymore and the way he dealt with anger wasn’t by lashing out, but with words or ...

“We lost,” he said, and stepped away, walking to the back of the gymnasium where he picked up a ball.  He bounced it three times, twirled it on his fingers, and then began his run up.

He hadn’t stretched, he hadn’t prepared, there was no focus or point to this showboating. Except _he_ had a point to prove. Throwing the ball into the air, Oikawa jumped high, and powered it over the net. It looked as if the ball would land dead centre, but such was the swerve on it, the corner was where it landed.

To a man, Nekoma gaped. Even the Captain’s eyes widened in shock and, Hajime thought, appreciation.

“But we won’t lose to you,” Oikawa said, deadpan and serious.  He gave a light laugh, and walked to the door. “Come on, Iwa-chan. Let’s leave them to their practise.” His eyes flicked to the tall blond. “They need it.”

 

 

“Why did you do that?” Hajime fumed.

They were walking away from the gym and back to the library. Oikawa was frowning, still annoyed by the Nekoma captain, and not listening to Hajime.

“Do what?” he finally replied when Hajime had repeated the question. “Oh, serve, you mean? I wanted to get under their skin. That blond bombshell will be shaking all night at the thought of that coming across the net to him.”

“No. I mean, why did you humiliate me, _again?_ ” Hajime said through gritted teeth. “You made me sound like a ... a ... fucking Neanderthal. And what was that crack about girls and being frustrated? I thought now we –”

 Oikawa was laughing and, once again, Hajime had to fight the urge to hit him.

“Stop laughing at me. STOP!”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said and chuckled. “It’s so good to see you angry, you know?  These past weeks, you’ve been so calm. It’s quite unnerving.”

“And that’s bad why? I thought we’d got past all this ... this .... pettiness, _Ass_ -kawa.”

Oikawa turned his wide eyes on him and blinked very slowly. “You play so much better when you’re riled,” he whispered.

 

 

The night before the match, they spent apart. Tooru made a crack that Iwaizumi needed his beauty sleep (“And sexual frustration will keep you on edge,” he’d murmured, just before kissing him goodbye) but the reality was, Tooru knew he wouldn’t sleep.

Iwaizume assumed he’d seen Tooru at his weakest; he was wrong.

That last match, the one against _him_ , still gnawed at him. Usually he could shut it out, but there were times when he’d stare at a wall and see the blockers’ hands, or he’d catch sight of a bird in the air, and wonder how that short-arse could fly so high. And at night, when he closed his eyes he’d see that stare, from those intense blue eyes, and he’d retch and retch until all his guts were gone.

There was something about Nekoma bothering him, too, but he couldn’t work out what it was. A persistant itch in his mind, more irritating because he knew he should be able to put it together.

All in all, when he turned up for the match, Iwaizumi took one look at him and let rip.

“You didn’t sleep at all, did you!”

“Pfft.” Tooru pouted his lips. “It’s okay, Mom, I got some sleep. No one was bothering me in the night ... for a change. Something you’d not know about, Iwa-chan, I’m sure.”

The rest of the team laughed, a touch nervously, but Iwaizume flushed and stepped closer. “You look like shit.”

They locked looks, and despite the anger, Tooru could see real concern in Iwaizumi’s eyes. He blinked, and tried a smile. “We have a game to win, Iwa-chan.”

“Oikawa-san...” Kindaichi’s voice was tentative.

“Mmm?” Tooru didn’t turn, but kept on staring into Iwaizumi’s eyes, waiting for him to blink. “What is it?”

“Nekoma ... uh ... what sort of team are they?”

Iwaizumi blinked and stepped to the side. There was something on his face that puzzled Tooru. It was as if he was struggling with a connection. Following his gaze, Tooru found himself looking straight at Kindaichi.

“Scallion head,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“But ... how...”

“I don’t know,” said Iwaizumi, sounding fierce. “But it doesn’t matter. We’re Aobajousai and we can win.”

Tooru stared at his team. “You mean we _will_ win, Iwa-chan,” he said, his voice chiding. But then it deepened. “No one here will let me down.”

“They’re already out there and warming up,” Matsukawa called from the changing room door.

“Then, Seijou, I think it’s time we graced _our_ stage.”

He led them out, raising his hand to acknowledge the girls already in place and screaming out their support. Despite this only being a practise match, they still had support they could count on. Not just Oikawa’s fans, but a core of volleyball enthusiasts who never failed to attend a match.

Nekoma’s support would be pitiful. Maybe the odd mutual would turn up, but that was all...

“KENMA! KENMA! OVER HERE!” A shrill, excitable voice.

“WOOT WOOT!  YAKU-SAN!” An enthusiastic shout.

“HEY, KUROO!” A deeper, more controlled rumble echoed around the gymnasium.

“CITY BOYYYYYYYYY!”

“What the fuck are they doing here?” Iwaizumi hissed.

Tooru searched the crowd, searched until he saw the twelve people sitting together. He saw the coach, his blonde hair scragged back with a band, he saw the manager sitting sedately, clipboard on her lap. He watched Sawamura grinning a greeting at Kuroo. Mr Refreshing exchanging a word with Nekoma’s Libero. Their bald guy high fiving Nekoma’s Mohican thug. And the little short arse – Hinata – slapping their Setter on the back as he squealed with excitement.

And then his eyes found _him_. And the punch to his guts intensified.

He rounded on Coach Irihata.“Why are they here?” he spat. “Why would you let them in?”

“Because they asked,” the coach replied. “And as their faculty adviser had paved the way for me to approach Nekoma, it was only right that I would agree.”

“They know Nekoma?”

“Mmm, they’ve played them before. Trained with them a few times. Karasuno and Nekoma have a ‘history’.” The coach sounded dismissive, unwilling to upset the team, but he lowered his voice when he pulled Tooru to one side. “You wanted a decent practise, Oikawa-kun. This match was your idea. You said we needed something other than teams in this prefecture,  that the college teams were too strong for our current line-up. It’s not my fault that-”

“We lost.” Tooru finished for him. He took a breath, trying to stop the churning, stabbing pain in his guts. But nothing was working, not the water from his bottle, or the cheers from the girls, or even Iwaizumi’s hand on his shoulder.

He looked back to the stand. Tobio wasn’t even looking at him. Even he was chatting, or at least listening to something the Nekoma captain was saying.

And he was smiling. That decided it. “I’m not playing.”

“What?” Iwaizumi gripped his shoulder tighter.

“Get rid of them, or I walk.”

“I can’t get rid of them, Oikawa. You’re being ridiculous,” said the coach.

“Then I’m not playing. Yahaba!” Tooru rapped sharply. “You’re Setter for the game.”

“Uh ... what?”

“You’re Setter.” He observed the team, wondering who to choose. “Kunimi, you can start. Play Wing Spiker.”

“Uh...” Kunimi, sidelined since the return of Kyoutani, swallowed nervously, his eyes flickering from the coach to his captain, and then to the figure behind Tooru.

He heard a deep breath and then a growling voice. “ Oikawa, please, we have a match to win. Now, let’s _all_ get on with our warm up.”

Disbelief made him laugh. The idea that Iwa-chan was contemplating this, made his cheeks ache as he cracked a smile. “Not with me,” he said, and dropped the smile. “Karasuno leave, or I do.”

Coach Irihata glowered back at him. “Then leave. There is no place in this team for petulant brats. Iwaizumi – you’re Captain. Lead the warm up.”

Iwaizumi nodded curtly, and picked up a ball. The other players stepped to the back of the court, ready to practise serves, but eyeing Tooru warily.

“Are you seriously going to play?” Tooru asked.

“Are you seriously walking out on us?” retorted Iwaizumi. And the way he said ‘us’ made Tooru wonder if he meant the team.

“I won’t perform for Tobio-chan’s amusement,” he hissed, and grabbed Iwaizumi’s arm. “You won’t either. Or don’t you mind them pissing themselves with laughter?”

“No one’s laughing,” Iwaizumi muttered. “No one. Certainly not Tobio. How could he?”

_Because we lost. Has he forgotten that?_

“Oikawa-san,” Iwaizumi breathed. “Come on, let’s play. Let’s show Karasuno that they only got lucky. That we’re still the best. That Kageyama has a lot more lessons to learn.”

_He’s calling him Kageyama. Not Tobio._

“No. I won’t play,” he said, and gripped his arm tighter.

Ripping off Tooru’s Captain’s band, Iwaizumi wrenched himself free, and used the band to cover the red finger marks on his arm.  He straightened up.  “I knew you were a selfish fucker, but I thought you were Seijou’s selfish fucker.”

“I won’t play,” Tooru insisted. “And you can’t make me.”

Iwaizumi pushed him back. “Then get the fuck off this court because we’ve got a match to win.”

 

 


	3. Hetaîros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Wikipedia:  
> Hetaîros meant companion or comrade; in Homer it is usually used of soldiers under the same commander. While its feminine form (hetaîra) would be used for courtesans, an hetaîros was still a form of soldier in Hellenistic and Byzantine times. In ancient texts, philos denoted a general type of love, used for love between family, between friends, a desire or enjoyment of an activity, as well as between lovers.
> 
> Although you've probably guessed, Oikawa and Iwaizumi are Achilles and Patroclus respectively.

It started badly. It was always going to start badly without Oikawa there. But from Kindaichi’s first serve, which he fired straight to the Libero, Hajime realised they were up against something else. Nekoma had no outstanding player. At least, not one he could see. The blond Middle Blocker, scored points with whip-like strike, but he was weak defensively, and they could get past him – easily. Except the rest of Nekoma wouldn’t let them through.

Then there was the Setter. Unathletic, never moving across the court unless he had to. But sharp, so very sharp, and although his tosses didn’t have the pinpoint accuracy of Kageyama’s and his flexibility was limited, his game sense was akin to Oikawa’s.

They were a clever side. No one outstanding, but they kept the ball in the air, and Seijou, who often relied too much on quick plays, or Oikawa’s ace serves, were struggling with long rallies. 

Hajime tried. He rallied, he scored, he exhorted Seijou on, attempting to praise, but all he really wanted to do was scream because for fuck’s sake they were better than this – even without Oikawa.

It wasn’t a surprise when they lost the first set 25- 12.

But it hit Hajime to his core that they’d been _so_ outplayed.

Usually Coach Irihata left the team talks to Oikawa, interjecting the odd word when he thought it necessary, backing his Captain all the way.  But today, after a glance at Iwaizumi, and clearly realising that he had nothing to say except ‘we’ve got to do better’, he gathered them into a circle and systematically began to put them back together. Reorganising the rotation so Kindaichi was in the guard against the blond Middle Blocker, he then turned to Kunimi and gave him pointers on his last serve from which the Nekoma Captain had won the set. Hajime barely listened. He knew all this. He could have told them, because he was able to analyse a game. He could lead and exhort, but what he couldn’t so was find the right words to get them all going. To combine them as a team.

“Iwaizume, where are you going?”

“To get him back,” he seethed.

In the changing room he found his phone and hit redial. Oikawa would answer; he knew that. He’d want to know how badly the team were doing without him. And if Hajime handled it correctly, he could get him back. He just needed the right ... motivation.

_Phring phring_

“Huh?” He could hear the ring.

“Over here, Iwa-chan,” said a voice from the corner near the equipment cupboard. “Why don’t you join me?”

It was his smile. That mocking smile that Hajime had seen so many times in the past. The one he always reacted to, but hadn’t expected to again. Because he’d been so very sure that things had changed between them. That Oikawa’s mockery was not meant badly but just his way. Just _their_ way of communicating. The way Hajime reacted with fists when words wouldn’t fly from his brain to his mouth.

“You didn’t leave.”

“Thought I’d wait for you. Is it over?”

“We’ve lost the first set. They’re good,” Hajime muttered. He inhaled, trying to control the fire inside him, trying to channel it to something other than rage because ... because he didn’t want to leave Seijou like this.

“They qualified for Nationals. Of course they’re good,” Oikawa replied. Picking up his phone, he held it an arm’s length away, smiled and took a photograph.

“We’re being annihilated out there,” Hajime began, swallowing in an effort to keep control. “Come back and play.”

“Don’t wanna!” Oikawa laughed, but there was bitter edge to it. “Is Tobio-chan enjoying himself?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve been too busy trying to stop us falling apart. And failing miserably,” Hajime spat. “Is that really all you can think about? Fucking Kageyama? Do you just not give a toss about the rest of us?”

Oikawa shrugged and stood up straight. “”They’ve got to do without us next year, Iwa-chan. Might as well start now.”

“BUT YOU WANTED TO PLAY!” roared Hajime. He clenched his fists, unable to bear the supercilious smirk on Oikawa’s face as he met his glare with unconcern.

“And now I don’t.”

“We’re losing. Oikawa, it was 25:12. We’re a joke!  We’ve fucking fallen apart, and all you can do is sit in here taking fucking selfies.” He stormed up to him, grabbing Oikawa by his lapels and shoving him up against the wall. “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? THIS IS OUR TEAM!”

 And then Oikawa roared back, and the pain, the anger, the incessant disappointment leeched onto his face, scouring the air between them, with its vivid fury. “TOBIO DESTROYED IT! THAT’S WHAT’S WRONG!”

He let him go, dropping Oikawa onto the floor, his whole body shaking. The anger had left his body as quickly as it had entered and all he saw was a pathetic heap on the floor. A nearly- man who’d had his toys taken away.

“He was better,” Hajime whispered. “Karasuno were better. We lost, and we’ll never get to Nationals now. But ... Oikawa-chan, this is our team, and we owe them, don’t we?”

Oikawa curled his knees into his chest and stared at some indeterminate spot on the floor. “I can’t play,” he said.

Hajime slumped. He could hear the coach calling his name, and turned to walk away. “Oikawa, please...” he said, for one last time.

“Tell Kunimi to try a jump float serve,” Oikawa mumbled. “And Kyoutani should try winding up the mohican guy.”

 

Tooru heard the sigh staccato breaths coming from Iwaizumi’s lungs. He heard his footsteps as he left the room. And he saw the way, as soon as Iwaizumi reached the gymnasium, that he lifted his chin to face the second set.  He crept closer to the door, peering through, and willed them on.

He couldn’t play. Just the thought of squaring up against these guys, who were obviously close to Karasuno. Just the idea that they’d have been talking to each other. That the short arse and the bad dye job kid communicated, and communicated enough that the Nekoma Setter knew their nicknames. That connection was making his guts curl.

And Tobio, he’d have talked to them, he’d have told that Setter exactly how to undermine Tooru.

The second set started. Kunimi served, but he didn’t jump high enough and the ball caught the net.

They were a good side. He could see that. The weaknesses he’d been able to pinpoint from such a fleeting encounter, were smothered with an overwhelming strength as a team. Led by a clever Captain and an observant Setter, what they did was connect and never let the ball touch the ground.

He stopped the thought from forming in his head that he could get through them. He turned away from the game, reaching for his phone to play a game instead of imagining the way his serve could pulverise them.

But his eyes kept flicking back to the match and a scoreboard that was never in their favour. As Nekoma quickly piled up a four-point lead, he heard Iwaizumi shout his anger. It wasn’t aimed at the team, his anger never was. But as Tooru wasn’t there, he took it out on himself, hands pummelling his head, fingers ripping out his hair. 

“You’re riled now, Iwa-chan,” Tooru whispered. “Maybe you have a chance.”

The serve from Kuroo was powerful. He could aim, too. It had no swerve, not like Tooru’s, but the intimidation behind it was intentional, deadly. He’d aimed close to Kunimi, having assessed he was their weakest link, but before the ball could reach him, someone screeched out for the ball. Kunimi jumped away, pleased someone else would deal with the bullet. And that someone, Tooru knew without looking, was Iwaizumi.  He leapt for the ball. He dived across the court, launching himself one footed to make the receive and keep his team in the game.

And just as Tooru was marvelling at his athleticism and his determination, Iwaizumi screamed.

The ball bounced off the writhing figure on the floor. Its final insult hitting a player who was already down. There were figures in the way, obscuring Tooru’s view. They stood in a row, none daring to move. And the Nekoma players had frozen – even the mohican Spiker had shut his trap – as everyone waited.

He didn’t remember getting to his feet. He had no memory of leaving the changing room. It was as if everything was in slow motion as he approached them. He pushed past Matsukawa, shoved Yahaba out of the way, and knelt down beside Iwaizumi. Knelt beside his friend. His only friend.

“Iwa-chan...”

“My knee, my fucking knee,” rasped Iwaizumi. “Hell, hell, fuck this, hell, get me something, I can’t... pain ... oh gods, fuck this. Help me.”

“We need a medic,” the Coach shouted, his voice shaking.

“I’ll get an ambulance.”

Tooru looked up to see the speaker was Karasuno’s faculty adviser, the guy with glasses that he’d always laughed at because word was he knew nothing about the game, and made a fool of himself begging for matches.

But he wasn’t a fool now. His composure intact whilst everyone froze or panicked, he punched in the number and calmly but with urgency called the hospital.

“Ambulance is on its way,” he said, approaching Coach Irihata. “They don’t want us to move him.”

“Nekoma, take a break. Nothing to see here,” ordered Kuroo. He stepped forwards, peering through the net, and murmured, “Tough break, Ace.”

Tooru glared at him, irrationally annoyed that this guy, this fucking intimidating, trash-talking charismatic guy appeared to care, and knew what to say, while he was struggling to even form a sentence.

This was the boy he’d grown up with, had played volleyball with for more years than not. The guy who’d saved him So. Many. Times. And now, Tooru couldn’t find the words. He grasped Iwaizumi’s hand. “Hey, hang in there for a while,” he began, his voice tremulous. “They’re getting you to hospital. You’re going to be fine, Iwa-chan. Remember my knee? I was fine, wasn’t I? You’ll be back here tomorrow.”

But Tooru had never looked like this. His sprain had been light, a matter of not walking for a few days. The deathly pallor of Iwaizumi’s skin, and the cold sweat pouring off his whole body shook Tooru to his core.

“I’ll come with you,” he murmured. “Don’t worry, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi jerked suddenly, opened his eyes and gripped his hand even tighter. “Win this game, Oikawa. Win this fucking game!”

“The game’s not important,” Coach Irihata said. “Under the circumstances, we can cancel or rearrange. Oikawa, go with him.”

“No,” Iwaizumi was insistent, even as his face contorted. “Oikawa ... _Tooru_... play and win.”

In the end, their assistant coach left in the ambulance with Iwaizumi. It had taken twenty long minutes for the paramedics to arrive. Minutes that Tooru should have utilised to get himself in the zone, but instead he stayed by Iwaizumi’s side, carrying out a few desultory stretches, and peeling off his tracksuit top in preparation.

And then as he bent down, fully stretching out his right leg, feeling the muscle burn, his eyes fixed on Tobio. He was leaning forward on his seat, no emotion, nothing but an apparent concern for Iwaizumi’s condition. Beside him, the red-haired short arse, Hinata, was gabbling away. Oikawa wondered why Tobio hadn’t told him to shut up by now, his temper was legendary, after all. But it was as if he was somewhere else, or maybe Hinata’s constant chatter, his very real presence was soothing.

“Don’t,” Iwaizumi groaned.

“What?” He flicked his attention back to the floor.

“Lose focus,” he said, and taking a breath, he added, “Your opponent is on the court, Oikawa-chan, not in the stands.”

 

It was when the ambulance drove out of the school gates that Tooru began to shake. It was when he watched the doors close, that he realised something. He’d not played a volleyball match without Iwaizumi since Junior High, and that had only been because Tooru had made the first team a term ahead of Iwaizumi. Sure he’d practised with other teams and played a set or two, but this was different. Although a practise match, the result mattered. It mattered because Iwaizumi wanted them to win.  Now, his Ace, the guy he had ‘perfect trust’ in, was not around, and Tooru was more nervous than he’d ever been before.

Breaths didn’t help, but at least the pain in his stomach had gone. Seeing the back of Tobio’s head didn’t cause him a problem anymore (although he still had this intense urge to serve a volleyball directly at him). 

He leant against the wall of the gymnasium, pretending to anyone watching that he was continuing his stretches, and tried to clear his head.

His mind span back to three weeks before and the terrifying laughter that had hit him when they’d lost. That ache remained, he wasn’t sure it would ever leave, but he knew it was past and he had a whole future spread before him.

Iwaizumi had always been there. Combative, opinionated, pugnacious, he’d never let Tooru fall. And this one time, the one time Iwaizumi had asked him for something – had pleaded for him to play – Tooru had refused.

He inhaled deeply, the breaths no longer shallow and ragged. “Okay, Captain Charisma, game on.”

 

The girls screamed when he reappeared. It annoyed him. He bounced the ball, and all he could hear were their squeals. It pissed him off. Whereas before their obvious admiration had spurred him on, now all he could think of was Iwaizumi,  and suddenly the way he gasped and screwed up his face when he came, flooded Tooru’s mind. Bouncing the ball again, he started to smile, no longer listening to his fans.

“Seijou,” he called as he walked back to start his run up. “Let’s make Nekoma ecstatic that _we_ didn’t make it to Nationals!”

And then, with the ball stretched out in front of him, a glimmer of a smile on his lips, he pointed directly to the loud-mouthed mohican guy and served.

They’d been expecting a powerful serve, yet he could tell they’d not anticipated his chosen target. The Libero had drifted towards the blond gangly boy, the Captain shielding the Setter. They’d left their roughneck exposed, and although he was clearly a cut above the other two, he wasn’t going to be able to handle the Oikawa serve.

“Ace serve!” he heard someone in the stands cry. It wasn’t a girl. Or one of the Seijou fans, but the short guy with the stupid hair, the Karasuno Libero, that had caused them so many problems. And he looked delighted, appreciative. The way Tooru had always been when he’d seen a good play, even if it wasn’t from his own team.

“And here comes another one,” Tooru murmured to the ball, spinning it lightly on his fingers before he started his run.

He didn’t serve aces all the time. But four in a row brought his fans to screaming pitch, and then the last, with less power but more swerve, was finally returned by the Libero. It fell to their Setter, who glanced one way before tossing in the other direction. A trick that many would be fooled by, but Oikawa had seen Tobio use the same trick, and he was ready.  With his hand outstretched after a good timed run, he spiked the ball in the space just behind the Captain and gloried in the latter’s frustration.

Nekoma were good. They were great, but it was as if they were playing against a whole different side. A side where the wall consisted of eight players, not three. Where the team were all Aces. And where the Setter conducted more than one orchestra simultaneously. It was a game Seijou had never played before. A day they were unbeatable. But for all his regret that this had not happened in the match against Karasuno, Tooru knew that this was the only time it could have happened. He’d never felt more empowered and more fired up to win. Not even against Ushijima.

And at the end, when Nekoma finally sank to the floor in defeat (score 12:25, 25:15, 26:24) Tooru lined up his team for their bow, accepted the Nekoma Captain’s hand in thanks, faced his fans with a grim smile before finally walking across the court.

He bowed low to the Karasuno adviser.  “Thank you for calling the ambulance.”

And then turned to their Setter. “You played well last time, Tobio-chan. But if we meet again, you won’t be as lucky.”

Tobio scowled, but Tooru knew it was more his natural expression rather than any real anger. “It was Karasuno that beat you, Oikawa-san, not me.” And then he swallowed. “You were ... good today.”

Behind him, Sawamura stifled a laugh. Getting to his feet, he held out his hand to Tooru. “Well played, Oikawa. They’re a tough team.”

He took the hand, returned Sawamura’s firm grip before releasing. “Mmm, I know. Excuse me, but I have somewhere else I need to be.”

“Oikawa ...” He turned back. The blond guy, ‘Mr Refreshing’ Karasuno’s _other_ Setter, was also standing. “Please wish Iwaizumi well on our behalf.”

“Thanks, I will,” he muttered, more touched than he’d thought possible.

Walking back to his team, he clapped them all on the back and then walked to the changing room. He didn’t bother to shower, just pulled on tracksuit bottoms and his jacket, picked up his kit bag and walked away.

 

 

His parents were by his bedside when Oikawa turned up. They welcomed him effusively because Hajime realised, they weren’t sure how to handle their son and his injury.

He was lying on the bed, his knee bound and resting on a pillow. Having had a painkiller, his mind was woozy and relaxed, but still sharp enough to gauge Oikawa’s expression.

“I take it we won.”

“Of course,” Oikawa smiled a little cockily, then his face settled to neutral. “It was close. Nekoma are seriously good, but ... we were better.”

“ _You_ were better,” Hajime replied wearily.

“That too.” Oikawa grinned.

“Time for a coffee, I think,” Hajime’s dad said. “We’ll leave you to your volleyball. Don’t keep him talking too long, Tooru-kun. Hajime needs his rest.”

They both watched them leave, then Oikawa sat on the bed and pouted a little. “Tobio said I was ‘good’,” he said. “Condescending little prick.”

“You spoke to him, then.”

“Mmm.” His eyes narrowed. “Was that why you wanted me to play?”

“Uh ... I thought you needed to face him. Bury your demon,” Hajime replied.  He stretched a little, the movement evincing pain. Oikawa touched him lightly on the shoulder.

“Can’t they give you anything for that?”

“They have. It takes the edge off, but ...” He trailed off, not wanting to continue, but Oikawa, usually so full of his own problems, became relentless.

“What is it?  A sprain?  That will get better easily. You know when I sprained mine, all it took was some rest and ice. You’ll be out of here in no time. I’m surprised they’re even keeping you in because a sprain’s nothing. Easily fixed. You’ll be fine and back to training in –“

“It’s tendons,” Hajime interrupted quietly. Oikawa stopped babbling, his mouth agape. “I’ve ruptured my patella tendon. I’ll need surgery. Could take six months to get me right.”

He bit his lip, trying to stop the tears from forming in his eyes, but the sight of Oikawa in front of him, his face blanching, his mouth moving wordlessly, affected Hajime far more than the pain in his knee.

“Six months?” Oikawa rasped.

Hajime gulped. “Yeah, not sure college will hold that place for me. Especially as I might never get back to full strength.”

 

“B-B-But you have to, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa stuttered. “Y-you have to go to college. It’s what you want, isn’t it. To train for law school. Uh ... what about your grades? Won’t they help?”

Closing his eyes, Hajime pressed his head into the pillow. “I’ve been concentrating on volleyball.” He paused and swallowed. It was easier if he didn’t look his way. “And you. Always you, Oikawa- chan. Something had to give.”

“Hajime...”

He didn’t listen, didn’t even acknowledge the fact that Oikawa had called him by his first name. “Or two things. Grades and my knee.”

And then  he faced Oikawa, stared down the guy who’d obsessed him for nigh on ten years, and wondered why his eyes were glistening because it wasn’t his problem, was it? “Guess I’m well and truly fucked, aren’t I?”

“Hajime, listen, we can-”

“I want you to go now,” Hajime muttered.

“But we can-”

“No.”

“The college will understand. These things happen. It’s you and me and our perfect trust.”

His head was thrumming, and he was weary, having heard and dealt with far too much. “I’m so tired of all this, Tooru. I’m exhausted by us. Please go.”

But Oikawa gripped his hand tighter and stared back at him. The gesture felt odd as if he really _was_ scared, or as if he meant everything he was saying.  “We’ll sort this out together. I’m not leaving you.”

“Get out of this fucking room!” But there was no bite behind the words.

Oikawa leant closer and gently kissed him on the lips, pulling back before Hajime could protest or respond, so he was a mere hair’s breadth away. He smiled, not his headlight beam of a smile, but a genuine smile, one that lit his eyes from within and set Hajime’s heart thumping. “Don’t wanna,” Oikawa whispered, kissing him again. “And you can’t make me, Iwa-chan.”


End file.
